My beat-up pickup sputters to every folk show in a fifty mile radius. In my passenger seat: instruments, cannabis and expired opiods, classic novels hiding pressed flowers, crinkly petals falling from between the pages and painting my fingers in saffron dust. When the fireflies flicker out like candles, with my trailer now off limits, I drive to the middle of the woods and lay in my truckbed under the stars. My knees gnaw at me. I don't sleep. Another day, another performance.

xxx